Utsav Amar Jati Anand Amar Gotar #2

Pratibha, the question is not of woman and man. Without drowning, no one has ever arrived, nor will anyone ever arrive.

The soul is neither woman nor man. The differences of woman and man are extremely superficial—like differences of clothing; they go no deeper. They are differences of skin, of bone and flesh. What abides within you is beyond both woman and man. And when that drowns, the boat reaches the far shore.

Do not think that a woman cannot reach without love. No one can reach without love. Love is the doorway to the divine. The consummation of love is the experience of the divine. When the flower of love fully blossoms, the fragrance that arises—that very fragrance is what we call the divine. The divine is not a person. The divine is an experience—the fragrance arising from your innermost being. And this will not happen without drowning.

What does drowning mean?

Drowning means the dissolution of the ego. Drowning means letting go of the “I”-sense. Those who cling to the “I” will remain snagged on the shore. Those who cling to the “I” are like boats whose chains are fastened to the bank: row as hard as you like, there will be no journey.

One full-moon night a few drunks drank heartily and went to the riverbank. The boatmen had gone home, tying the boats with chains. The drunks chose a pretty boat, lifted the oars, and began to row. They were intoxicated. They rowed hard. The night was cold, but by rowing and rowing they were drenched in sweat. Toward dawn a chill breeze blew, the intoxication thinned a little, and one said, “Get down and see how far we must have come! We’ve rowed all night, not stopped for a moment. Now we should return. The wife and children will be waiting.” One of them got out on the bank and immediately burst into peals of laughter, holding his stomach. The others asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “You come too! This is not to be told, but seen.” They all got down. Whoever got down laughed, held his stomach, rolled on the ground. Only then did they realize they had forgotten to unchain the boat! They had rowed all night but had not traveled an inch.

This is not merely a story; it is the reality of most people’s lives. You run your whole life—where do you arrive? You row a lot; where is the journey? The goal is far, you don’t even find a wayside halt. And the reason? Ego. You are clutching yourself tight. One cannot hold on to oneself and attain the divine at the same time. You can’t have it both ways. It’s like wanting darkness and light to coexist in a room—life’s arithmetic doesn’t allow it. If you want darkness, there can be no light; if you want light, darkness cannot remain. There is no compromise possible, no co-existence.

Ego is darkness. “I am”—this is the understanding of those who do not know themselves. “I am”—this is the claim of those who have no clue of the “I.” Those who have truly known the “I” say, “I am not.” They say, “The divine is—where am I? The drop is not, only the ocean is.”

The ignorant says, “The drop is; the ocean is not. Where is this ocean? Show me the ocean, and I will believe. Give me proof of the ocean, and I will accept.”

The drop trusts in its boundary, and the ocean is boundless. Eyes fixated on boundaries cannot see the boundless. To see the infinite, one must drop the finite. And the pettiest boundary is that of the ego. There is none smaller. You cannot become smaller than the ego. The ego is the tiniest existence; smaller than atoms. An atom can be split—your ego cannot. You are the ultimate particle.

Ego is the terminal, ultimate atom—beyond it there is no further division. It is the smallest unit. And you are gripping that tiny unit so tightly—how will you be able to see the vast!

Drowning means: bit by bit, let the “I” go; bid it farewell. Bow to it. Say goodbye. And there is no real difficulty in saying goodbye, because it is utterly false. Where is the difficulty in dropping a falsehood? Only if you don’t want to drop it, that’s another matter. It is entirely false. It’s like a naked man saying, “I don’t bathe, because then where will I wring out and dry my clothes? I don’t bathe, for if I do, where will I dry them?”

If a naked man says, “I don’t bathe because where will I dry my clothes?” what will you say to him? “You’re mad! You don’t have any clothes to wring and dry. You’re naked—bathe to your heart’s content. Bathe as many times as you like. You don’t even have the hassle of taking clothes off and putting them on.”

The “I” does not exist, hence there is no difficulty in letting it go. If it existed, there would be difficulty. It does not exist. Just turn your eyes within, look carefully, and you will not find the “I.” In that not-finding is hidden all finding—the ultimate finding is hidden there. Where the “I” is not found, there the divine is found. The drop disappears, the boundary dissolves; the ocean reveals itself.

Pratibha, it is not only woman who reaches through love; everyone reaches through love. Yes, there can be a slight difference. A man often begins with meditation and arrives at love. There is that distance, but he arrives at love nonetheless. Mahavira calls that same love nonviolence. Buddha calls that love compassion. This is a difference of names. And let me tell you, these names are not more beautiful than love. Mahavira chose another word. Buddha chose another word. They had their reasons. The word “love” had gathered much mud over the centuries. We have so abused the word love that Mahavira had to coin a new word—ahimsa: nonviolence.

But ahimsa is not as glorious a word as love. In nonviolence there is not that juice, that ecstasy, that vastness. Nonviolence means only this: do not harm, do not cause suffering. Love is far more than that. Love does not end with “do not cause suffering”—that is only its indispensable part. Love is something much more.

Love is: to bring joy. Nonviolence is: not to bring pain. Nonviolence is negative—the word itself says so: “non-violence.” A negation. Mahavira chose a negative word because the positive word, love, had become sullied in wrong hands for ages. You call petty attachments love. Someone says, “I just love ice cream!” Mahavira must have thought, What to do now? Someone says, “I love my dog.” Another says, “I love my house.” People “love” every manner of thing! Given these “loves,” Mahavira did well to keep the word out—too many wrong associations clung to it.

Still, the word love is wondrous! I would choose that word. I will wash away the mud. You don’t throw away a diamond because it got dirty. You wash it. We will wash the diamond of love. I am engaged in that washing. But love must be called love.

Buddha did a little better. Instead of ahimsa he chose karuna—compassion. Nonviolence is negative; compassion, at least, is affirmative. But even compassion does not reach the heights that love does. Compassion does not have the Mount Everest that love has. In compassion lurks a certain pity; in pity the ego has a subtle way to remain. When you pity someone, you are “above.” When you show compassion, the other is “below”; you make him feel small.

However beautiful the word compassion, it does not receive the dignity and glory of love. It may be purer, untouched by mud—but then what to do? Lotuses grow in the mud! The lotus of love has also grown out of the great mud of humankind.

I will call love love. I will not call it nonviolence—for that makes it negative. And negatives carry dangers. The danger is that a man says, “We will not give pain. We will guard ourselves from causing suffering.” But to give joy, to share bliss—this festival does not arise from nonviolence. That is why Jainism shrank.

Sometimes small words bring momentous results! Jainism shrank because of the word ahimsa. Nonviolence can shrink; it cannot expand. Don’t kill the ant. Strain water before drinking. No food at night. No quarrels, no hassles—shrink, keep shrinking; somehow keep yourself safe. See how the Jain monk walks—ever protecting himself. He carries a soft whisk; if there’s an ant where he sits, he can gently clear the place. The whisk is made of sheep’s wool so even an ant is not hurt.

All that is good—I do not call it bad. I’m not saying, “Go kill ants wherever you find them.” Protect ants—good. But where religion gets confined to protecting ants, there can be no vastness. And with a life centered on “not harming ants,” how will the song of joy arise? Will you play the flute because you saved a thousand and one ants? Will you sing for joy because, thank God, a thousand and one ants were saved?

Your life will become negation upon negation. And that happened. Jainism shrank. It had tremendous potential, deep sutras of meditation. Yet it shriveled. What is the number of Jains today? Some thirty lakhs! In twenty-five hundred years only three million! If even thirty couples had taken sannyas from Mahavira, the number would have reached this much in twenty-five centuries.

What happened? Where did the voice of a wonder like Mahavira get lost? It got lost in the desert of ahimsa. The word was negative. And then Mahavira’s other choices also turned negative: ahimsa (nonviolence), aparigraha (non-possessiveness), asteya or achourya (non-stealing)—everything prefixed by “non-.” All vows became negative.

Buddha did a little better, hence Buddhism spread far and wide. Compassion is an affirmative word. But in compassion the ego does not drown; at best it becomes refined. Refined ego is like refined poison. Hence the Buddhist monk grew stiff with pride. Buddhism declined through ego. Jainism declined through negation. The Buddhists became so stiff that decline was inevitable.

The beauty of the word love is this: in it there is neither negation nor ego. In love one simply drowns—unconditionally, asking nothing. Love is giving and giving. Love is ceaseless donation. Love expands, and expansion is the very form of the Brahman.

To become vast, Pratibha, you have to fulfill just one condition: look within and see—is there ego or not? If there is, then religion is not possible. If there is ego, the divine is not. Yet whoever has looked within has never found the ego. Ego is the delusion of those wandering outside.

Mulla Nasruddin was once caught on a train. The ticket collector asked for his ticket. Nasruddin searched his pant pockets, shirt pockets, coat pockets—every pocket—once, twice, turned them inside out so nothing might be hiding. No ticket. He opened bedding, suitcase, rummaged through clothes. The collector was puzzled.

He said, “Sir, you’re checking everything, but why not the top pocket of your coat? Perhaps it’s there!”

Nasruddin said, “Don’t even mention that pocket. I cannot look there.”

“Why?”

“Because all my hope is pinned on that pocket—that if it’s nowhere else, it will be there. And if it’s not there either, I’m done for! So I can’t look there. First let me search everywhere else. Not only my bedding, I’ll open others’ too. I won’t leave a thing in this compartment unsearched. That pocket will be last. Don’t bring it up. I’m afraid—if it’s not there, what then! My hope is that it will be there.”

Such is man’s state. He looks everywhere outside and does not glance within. He is afraid—and the fear has truth in it—that if he looks within and does not find himself, what then? Hence do not look within. Climb chairs. Amass wealth. Adorn the ego. Do not even bother whether the ego exists or not.

A fakir stayed as a guest outside a village. He had a goat. A young man from the village served him devotedly from morning to night, even sleeping outside his hut. When the fakir departed, he gifted his goat to the youth, saying, “This is my prasad.”

The youth stayed on in that hut as a holy man. And what was lacking now! He had a goat—the saint’s goat. He had the hut—the saint’s hut. Days of satsang had polished his talk; he could converse on knowledge, on soul and God. Soon his fame grew, and people worshipped him.

Years later the fakir returned and was amazed. He had left a hut; now there stood a grand temple! An altar gleamed with gold and jewels. The youth he had left had become the temple’s mahant. His glory was beyond words. The altar was renowned far and wide—people’s wishes were said to be fulfilled there.

At night the fakir asked his disciple, “Tell me—whose altar is this? When I left, there was only a hut. No altar. Which goddess is this altar for?” The youth said, “What can I hide from you? The goat you gave me died. Since it was your goat, I buried it properly and made an altar over it. As I was building it, people asked, ‘Whose altar is this?’ What could I say? If I said a goat’s, they would laugh. So I said, ‘A goddess’s.’ To save face I said that. The story grew. People came. They offered flowers, money, rupees. The temple was built. Now no one asks whose altar it is. You asked—so I told you.”

The fakir burst into laughter. The youth asked, “Why are you laughing?” He said, “Because in the village where I live, the altar of this goat’s mother stands. She was a very noble goat! When she died, the same thing happened. My reputation too is thanks to her mother.”

No one asks now. People keep offering.

Ego is nothing—a zero. But you can gold-plate a zero, inlay it with jewels, build a palace around it; hang titles, medals, honors, fame around it. Then the zero is hidden; only the decorations are seen. And then you fear to go within—what if you go in and find no one there, only a rotting goat!

Pratibha, to drown the ego does not mean that the ego is something you must seize and submerge. It means only this: look within a little—just a little—and the ego is not found. In that not-finding, the ego is drowned. Then fountains of love spring up. That very love is the divine. And in this there is neither the question of man nor of woman. There may be slight differences along the way; in the destination there can be none. There is no difference at the source, and none at the end—neither at the origin nor the culmination. Yes, on the path there will be slight differences. Man often begins with meditation and arrives at love; woman often begins with love and arrives at meditation. These differences are not of great consequence. Begin with meditation and you will reach love. Begin with love and you will reach meditation—because love and meditation are two sides of the same coin, just as woman and man are two sides of the same coin.

You ask, “A woman cannot reach without love.”

No one can.

And you ask, “A woman only knows how to drown.”

So we say. So we believe. But neither men want to drown, nor women want to drown. Both stiffen. Both try to save themselves. Yes, a man’s ways of saving himself are a bit gross; a woman’s a little subtle. In the quarrels of husbands and wives, in their constant conflicts, you will see this again and again: neither wants to bend.

A man simply does not want to bend. For centuries he has nurtured the ego, massaged and maintained it, decorated and adorned it. But the woman is no less. She too has an ego—feminine in style, so it is not immediately caught. A woman will grasp a man’s feet and say, “I am your handmaiden!” But what is the final outcome? The handmaiden becomes the mistress, and the master becomes the servant of her feet. You will see foot-servants in every home! Women sit as mistresses. In India it is apt: we call a woman the gharwali—the one who owns the house. We do not call the man gharwala. The woman is the owner at home.

Men know very well that when a woman writes to her parents she signs, “Your handmaiden,” but a man knows well who the real servant of feet is!

A woman’s strategy is subtle. She does not win by conquering; she wins by yielding. Not by grabbing the neck, but by touching the feet. Not by killing, but by dying.

Hence when a man gets angry he beats the woman; when a woman gets angry she beats herself—bangs her head against the wall. When a man gets angry he commits murder; when a woman gets angry she commits suicide. But these are two faces of the same coin; there is no real difference—only psychological differences of the male and female mind.

But woman too struggles—a full struggle, inch by inch. Husbands and wives fight every moment, over every little thing. Shall this chair be kept here or there?—enough for a quarrel. Shall we see this picture or that one?—enough for a quarrel.

I once asked Mulla Nasruddin, “What is the secret? You and your wife never quarrel!”

Nasruddin laughed and said, “I fixed that on the first day of marriage. If a quarrel starts at the beginning, it’s hard to end. So beforehand we made rules: we decided we would not quarrel. We agreed on terms—and then no quarrel.”

“What terms?” I asked. “Two,” he said. “Both very profitable. First, my wife would decide all the small matters; I would decide all the big ones.” I asked, “She agreed?” He said, “She did.” “Tell me, what are small matters?” He said, “Which car to buy, which school for the child, what house to purchase, how to make the budget—all the small worldly things I gave to her.” “And the big ones?” “Whether God exists or not, what is moksha, how many heavens and how many hells, should the war in Vietnam stop or not, should Kashmir be with India or Pakistan—such big questions I decide. The small ones she decides. No quarrels.”

Why would there be quarrels! Wives are wise. If you want to decide such big issues, go ahead—they know nothing will come of it. The real questions are whether an Ambassador or a Fiat will stand at the door. Whether God exists or not—think to your heart’s content. If he does, fine; if not, fine. What sari to buy—that she will decide. Whether hells are seven or three—you think it over. You’ll be the one going; you figure it out.

“And the second agreement?” He said, “Also very useful: if either of us gets angry, that one must immediately go out. Until the anger cools, keep walking outside.”

“Because of this,” Nasruddin said, “my health is excellent. Ten or twenty-five times a day I circle the whole town. Whenever anger arises, I go out—one lap, two, three—until the anger subsides. I’ve never been ill, never had a headache, never a fever. Only benefits!”

Men’s and women’s arithmetics differ, but the aim of both is the same. A woman wants to possess the man—hence she is very jealous. The man wants to possess the woman, and he makes all arrangements for it: he bars her from society, from meeting others; he strips her of work and public life, cripples her so she becomes wholly dependent. Dependence becomes slavery.

But remember: whoever you make a slave, you will have to be his slave. She gave up everything, and her entire urge to dominate—which could have dispersed into wealth, position, prestige—collected in one place: the husband. Hence every husband turns into someone else as soon as he enters the home.

In a school a teacher asked, “Can you name the animal that comes like a lion and enters the house like a cat?” A little boy said, “Father. Up to the door he’s like a lion; inside the house he enters like a cat.”

The woman dropped politics and all the upheaval—but all politics and all upheaval became condensed.

So Pratibha, don’t say a woman knows how to drown. One has to learn to drown—it is a great art, the greatest art in the world. There is none higher. One must learn to drown.

A woman too has ego—very subtle, very well-groomed. A man’s is rough and obvious; a woman’s is very fine and hidden. Both must learn to drown. And the one key to drowning is that both must look within and see: “I am not.” It is a costly bargain, a risky bargain. Few can do it. But those who do are blessed. The divine is theirs.

You say, “A woman only knows how to drown. And only by drowning in you can one arrive.”

Then drown! The pretext for drowning is secondary. The true Master is merely a pretext for drowning, a support for drowning, a means to drown. Without a pretext, drowning is difficult. Drown! By whatever pretext you can, drown! Use me—drown in me. For the result of drowning is one: it does not matter in whom you drown. Drown in Rama, in Krishna, in Buddha, in Mohammed—drown somewhere! The ghat you descend from does not matter. You have to cross to the other shore. All ghats are His. From every ghat His boats depart. Drown in me! I am only a pretext. By drowning in me, what will you find? You will find that you are not. You will find that the divine is. So too by drowning in Krishna. So too by drowning in Jesus.

But perhaps drowning in Jesus is difficult—a gap of two thousand years. In Krishna, difficult—five thousand years. Doubts will arise in the mind—did Krishna even exist? There is an idol in the temple, but who can trust an idol? It may be imagined, a legend. And nearly ninety-nine percent of what goes by the name of Krishna is legend and fancy.

Man is highly imaginative. He spins webs of poetry and fantasy around those he adores. In those webs even true historical figures become counterfeit. People weave fantasies for glory, but they don’t know that in those very glories their saints are drowned—for those glories make the saints seem false. That Krishna lifted a mountain on his finger!

Such falsehoods do not increase Krishna’s glory; they merely make Krishna himself seem false. Yes, if the mountain were like the papier-mâché ones in the Ramleela, which Hanuman carries, then perhaps. If there was such a Govardhan—made of paper, in a Ramleela—then fine. But even in the Ramleela falsehood cannot last long.

In a village Ramleela, Lakshman lay unconscious and Hanuman had gone to fetch the sanjeevani herb. Not knowing which herb, he brought the whole mountain. He was flying through the sky, the mountain in hand, tied to a rope and pulley. The village pulley jammed. Hanuman hung stuck, mountain and all. Rama stood below. Lakshman half-opened his eyes now and then to see why it was taking so long. The crowd clapped, wondering how this would end. The manager panicked. He climbed up to free the rope—no luck; the knot jammed. In haste he pulled out a knife and cut the rope. Down crashed Hanuman with the mountain.

But the script is fixed. Rama had to say his line: “You brought the sanjeevani, O son of the wind?” Hanuman blurted, “To hell with the son of the wind! First tell me—who cut the rope? If I don’t fix him right now, my name isn’t Balwant Singh. I’ll deal with him first, then Lakshman and everyone else.” He forgot he was Hanuman; he was Balwant Singh again!

Even in Ramleela falsehood doesn’t last; the rope gets stuck. And you have made Rama a lie, Krishna a lie, Mahavira a lie, Buddha a lie. You are skilled at falsifying—even with good intentions. But what do good intentions do? As the English saying goes: the road to hell is paved with good intentions. You thought their glory would increase, devotion would grow—“Ah, Krishna lifted the mountain—Govardhan-dhari!” “Hanuman carried a mountain—the son of the wind!” People’s reverence would rise. It did, as long as people’s intelligence was low. But now intelligence has grown. These things won’t work. Now you must understand a truth: the false poetry, false myths, false puranas that once worked will not work now. They will drown you badly; they will not let you cross. They are paper boats; they won’t carry you.

Seek a living Master. If you find a living person who attracts you so deeply, who draws you so close to his heart that your own heart dances to be near—make him your means, your cause, your pretext, and drown! For you will drown in the Master, but you will surface in the divine.

So Pratibha, drown! You say a woman knows how to drown. Come—prove it. Drown!

And you say, “Please drown me and carry me across.”

It won’t happen through my doing. You will have to drown. And if you drown, the carrying across happens by itself. Nothing will happen by my doing. I can neither drown you nor rescue you. You will drown, and you will be saved. If you force someone under water, they will panic and struggle to get out. Have you ever tried to dip a small child in the Ganges? He panics instantly. Don’t even dip—pour a small lota of water over his head and he will run and scream.

I will not drown you. Yes, I have made full arrangements for drowning. The ghat is ready. I am calling you to courage, inviting you. Every moment I cry out, “Come!” You will drown—and you will be saved.

Buddha said: Buddhas only show the way; you have to walk, and you have to arrive.

Krishna Vedanta, what will it help if the Gita is memorized? If it is stuck in the throat, how will it reach the heart? The Gita must be heart-seated. What comes from outside can at best reach the throat—its journey ends there. Whether it is the Gita or the Quran, brought in from the outside it reaches only as far as the throat. It will turn you into a parrot.

There is another Gita, another song, another Quran—one that arises from your own heart; it is not imported from outside, it is awakened within. Your own lamp begins to burn. Then Krishna speaks within you; then the voice of Allah resounds within. When God speaks through your own self, then the Gita is seated in the heart. Call it Quran, call it Bible, call it Dhammapada—no difference. They are different songs sung by different singers, but the tone is one, the music one.

Surely Morarji-bhai may have the Gita by heart. I don’t doubt that. But only by heart—in the sense of rote. And what is the contradiction between a memorized Gita and politics? The one who has the Gita by rote will extract politics even from the Gita.

Lokmanya Tilak extracted his kind of politics from the Gita; Mahatma Gandhi extracted his kind of politics from the Gita; Morarji-bhai will extract his kind too.

When it is only memorized, you will impose your meaning upon it; the words may be Krishna’s, but the meanings will be yours. That is the plight of parrots. Parrots do not have meanings of their own; they merely repeat whatever they were taught.

I have heard: A shopkeeper had a most extraordinary cat. In her past life she must have been a Jain nun, though she must also have committed some small sins—maybe used tooth powder, or once in a while bathed with a sponge in secret. For such small sins she became a cat in this life; but because of fasting and vows, she became a special cat—very religious, did not eat meat. Mice would pass right in front of her and she would sit unmoved. A greater virtue still: she could speak human language and discourse on great knowledge. She remembered the scriptural discussions of her past life; she remembered Mahavira’s words. The shopkeeper kept her by his side in the shop. Customers would chat with her for amusement, and while they were thus entertained, the shopkeeper would lighten their pockets as much as possible.

One day the cat killed and ate a mouse—old habits die hard; a cat is a cat, nature is nature. The shopkeeper looked away just a moment; a mouse darted by; the pious lady tried her best to restrain herself but could not. The shopkeeper was a Jain; he could not tolerate it. It was a matter of his prestige too. He picked up the stick kept nearby and started beating the cat. In a few minutes she was bleeding; her paws were swollen; her lips and eyes puffed up; even her tail swelled, and her belly bloated as if filled with air.

The cat deeply repented eating that one mouse. Every customer who came in she would weep and say, Look at my condition—my whole body has swollen up merely for eating one mouse! Beware, live by nonviolence; ahimsa paramo dharmah! Just then Tuntun came to buy some goods. Before the shopkeeper could say anything, the cat widened her eyes in amazement and said, Mother, how many mice had you eaten?

What else could the cat do? The meanings will be her own.

You say: “Morarji-bhai has the Gita memorized.”
Surely.

“Then why such eagerness for politics?”
He will extract politics from the Gita. From scriptures, you will pull out whatever you want to pull out. That is why there are so many commentaries on each scripture. There are a thousand famous commentaries on the Gita; don’t even count the obscure ones. Krishna’s meaning could only have been one; a thousand meanings cannot belong to Krishna. If Krishna had a thousand meanings, Krishna would be mad, and Arjuna too would go mad. For them the meaning was definite. Then how did a thousand meanings arise?

Shankaracharya gives one meaning—out of it comes Vedanta, nonduality. Ramanujacharya gives the opposite meaning—out of it comes duality, devotion; Vedanta vanishes. And Lokmanya Tilak extracted karma, action, from it. Whatever you prefer, whatever you want to do, you will extract.

From scriptures you can forge guns or you can forge swords—what power do the scriptures have before you? The scripture’s neck is in your hands; press it as you wish and the scripture will speak accordingly. Scriptures are dead; you are alive. Scriptures contain words; who will inscribe meaning upon those words?

I have heard: A Lucknow nobleman was very ill. The cause was clear—soirees till three or four in the morning, liquor, music, courtesans—then sleep all day. The physicians said, This won’t do. From now on, go to bed at dusk, rise exactly at six in the morning, before sunrise. Get up at six by the clock. He said, Fine. His courtiers were surprised; they did not trust he could do it. But the nobleman said, Don’t worry; there is a trick out of every rule. Put black curtains all around my room. When I get up, then draw the curtains, so that only after I rise does the sun rise. And when I get up, set the clock to six.

Now this became a great joke. The physician had said, Rise when the clock strikes six. The noble said, All right; when I rise, make the clock strike six—what’s the problem? If health is restored so easily, we’ll do just that.

Man is very dishonest. From the Gita you will extract whatever meanings you wish, and you will deny whatever meanings you do not want to accept.

Krishna tells Arjuna, Fight the war! This created a big hurdle for Mahatma Gandhi, because he was an apostle of nonviolence—and here is an exhortation to battle! The entire context of the Gita is war, its whole teaching is set in war. But man is clever. Gandhi found a device: this is not an actual war, it is symbolic. Not a battle between Kauravas and Pandavas, but between good and evil. It is the symbol of an inner, spiritual war—dharma-kshetra, kuru-kshetra is an inner field of righteousness, not the actual Kurukshetra.

Then the problem is solved. Then Arjuna did not spill blood, did not sever heads; the matter ends. But if Gandhi’s reading is true, what about Arjuna’s question—“Shall I slay my own kith and kin? Better I go to the forest”—was he mad? And Krishna explains, Do not think of killing them; they are already slain before your blow; you are but the instrument. Their death has already occurred; you only have to give a push. If you do not kill, someone else will. Where will you run? Do not swerve from your duty.

But Gandhi poured water over all this. He interpreted the Gita in such a way that there is no violence, no war. If there is war, it is imaginary—between virtue and vice.

In the same way, Morarji-bhai will extract his meanings too. He is no small “mahatma,” he is a big one! Extracting meanings is easy. Knowing the Gita is very difficult. Believing in the Gita is easy—because in “believing” you are indirectly believing in yourself. You are not worshipping the Gita; you are seeing your own reflection in it. You are not revering the Gita; you are inserting your meanings into it and then worshipping those meanings. You all are bowing down to your own idols. You are worshipping yourselves—and all this fattens the ego.

Naturally, when the Gita is memorized, the ego thickens. If the Quran is memorized, the ego thickens. These are not matters of the throat. Leave throat-work to parrots. Though even parrots have some wit—less, perhaps, than your so-called scholars.

I have heard: A woman bought a parrot in the market—none other than Mulla Nasruddin’s wife. The seller said, Take it by all means, but it comes from the wrong place—a prostitute’s house. If it blurts out something obscene, don’t be angry with me; it has heard such talk.

Mulla’s wife said, Don’t worry. When I could reform Mulla Nasruddin, what chance has a parrot? One or two weeks—three weeks—and I’ll set him straight.

She kept the parrot covered for three weeks so no one would know. When the house was empty, she taught him wise sayings. The parrot learned to repeat them. After three weeks she made an announcement and unveiled the parrot. As soon as light fell, the parrot saw his mistress and cried, Ah, the new madam! The lady was delighted—what intelligence! Just then Nasruddin’s daughters returned from college. The parrot said, Ah, the new madam—and new girls too! And just then Mulla Nasruddin came home. The parrot said, Ah, new madam, new girls—but the customer is old!

Even parrots have some sense. But your pundits have not even that much. It is hard to find a duller person than a pundit. A pundit believes knowledge can be carried in from outside. This is a fall from the very edge of intelligence. One cannot fall lower.

Knowledge arises from within, not from outside. What comes from outside is mere information, mere words. Knowledge is born of meditation, not of study and speculation. Knowledge is the fragrance of meditation. Where meditation matures within, knowledge fruits and flowers.

What would Morarji-bhai know of meditation? Ten years ago he asked me how to meditate. I showed him the way. He said, That is too difficult. And at this old age, how will it be possible? I said, In this old age politics is possible, the ambition to become prime minister is possible—but meditation is not? If one doesn’t want to do it, there are endless excuses.

Just think—at this old age all the dirt of politics is possible: one pulls your leg, another your arm, someone runs away with your neck. One throws a shoe, another a stone; someone waves black flags; someone shouts “Long live!” another “Down with!” All this is possible. Going to jail is possible, fasting for power is possible! All kinds of political tricks, deceits, dishonesties are possible; all kinds of rackets, conspiracies are possible. But meditation is not possible? In old age it is difficult? What I call meditation you cannot do?

When one doesn’t want to do it... There is a great joke! Tell a young man to meditate—he says, Not now, I am young; I’ll meditate in old age. Scriptures even say—after seventy-five take to sannyas, meditation, samadhi. Tell an old man—he says, Now I am old; how can I? Children, of course, you must forgive; they are children—what will they understand of meditation? Children cannot understand; the young cannot do it because they’re young; the old cannot do it because they’re old. Then who will meditate? The dead? If Morarji-bhai Desai will not, will Mr. Dead-bhai Desai do it? Who will?

Information is cheap; meditation is costly. For meditation one must pay the price—the price of ego. And the politician cannot pay that price; his whole game is ego.

And the Gita—here every politician should know it. It should be memorized. Even if not by heart, at least some acquaintance is necessary—because those who believe in the Gita are a large vote-bank. One must be able to toss around a few scriptural words. Here a politician must know a few sayings from Islam, a few from Mahavira, a few from Buddha, a little of the Gita, Upanishads, Vedas. It is an essential part of politics here. For there is no other way to butter the egos of those whose votes you seek. Tell a Hindu, “The Gita is the greatest scripture”—the Hindu is pleased. Tell a Jain, “Mahavira—Tirthankara, Bhagwan, incomparable, never was there such a man”—and the Jain is pleased!

The joke is that Jains have consigned Krishna to hell—for Mahavira, if Krishna instigated war, it was great violence. And Hindus have never recognized Mahavira as an avatar of God in their scriptures. But what does a politician care? He must seduce the Hindu by flattering him; the Jain by flattering him; the Muslim by flattering him. His entire trade is flattery. If he wants power, there is no other way.

So he must know how to sing, “Allah and Ishwar are your names; grant good sense to all, O God!” Only he adds silently inside, “Don’t grant it to me. Give everyone wisdom, so that all vote for me. Don’t give me wisdom—otherwise I will renounce. Don’t make me wise yet. Let me rule a little.”

Just look at the lives of these politicians—their sermons, their speeches, their exhortations—and their lives!

In a school a teacher said, All right, does anyone have any questions?
One student stood up: Sir, I want to ask—what have you written on my notebook? I can’t read it. Please tell me what you wrote.
The teacher exploded in anger: You blockhead! Can’t you read that? It clearly says, “Develop the habit of writing clearly.”

No one worries about his own handwriting.

Mulla Nasruddin was the only literate man in his village. People would have him write their letters. One day a man came to have a letter written. He dictated; Mulla wrote. When it was finished, the villager said, Brother, now please read it back so I can see if anything is missing. Mulla said, That’s a problem. My job is writing, not reading. Besides, it would be illegal. The man said, What do you mean? Mulla said, Illegal because the letter is not addressed to me—how can I read it?
The villager agreed: True, the letter is not to you. The real point was that Mulla could not read his own handwriting. And if he did read it, he would be in trouble.

Another time a man came: Brother, write me a letter—it’s urgent.
Mulla said, No, my leg hurts.
The man said, What has your leg to do with writing a letter?
Mulla said, You don’t understand—my leg hurts badly.
The man said, A letter is written by hand. Write four lines; no, write two lines. He must be waiting.
Mulla said, You don’t understand. If I write the letter, I will have to go to the next village to read it to him—and my leg hurts. Who else can read what I write?

Those who write scriptures are of two kinds. One is the pundit—who writes on the basis of other scriptures. The other is the meditator—who writes from the opening of the inner scripture. The Gita, the Quran, the Bible, the Dhammapada—such supreme scriptures are revelations that appear when inner light happens; they descend, they are inspired. They are not ordinary compositions that you memorize and, because you know the language, imagine you have understood everything.

Morarji Desai may indeed have the Gita memorized—but only memorized. It will be heart-seated only when it rises from the heart. And the real wonder is: the Gita can arise from the heart only when you have the courage to drop all that you have learned from outside.

Someone asked Sri Raman: I have come from far to learn about truth.
Raman said, If you wish to learn about truth, go elsewhere. If you wish to learn truth, stay here. But do you know the condition for learning truth? The condition is: all that you have learned till now must be unlearned.

You have to become free of scriptures—then the inner scripture is born. Free of scholarliness—then the lamp of wisdom is lit. Free of thoughts—then the smokeless flame of thoughtlessness is attained. When the mind departs, dissolves; in the state of no-mind, whatever proclamation arises within you—that is the Bhagavad Gita.

But with scriptures there is an easy shortcut. No need to meditate, no need to search the soul, no need to inquire. Just read a book and repeat it every morning.

For Morarji Desai it is easy—every morning spin the charkha for three hours, read the Gita for an hour. Mechanically the wheel spins, mechanically the Gita is memorized. Repeating and repeating—at eighty-four you will surely remember the Gita. But what meanings will emerge? No fragrance will arise—only the stench of politics.

A pundit was in great distress; his punditry didn’t sell. New pundits had come to the village and were prospering. He had to take a job. One day he said angrily to his mistress, Madam, here is my resignation—I am leaving.
She said, Why? What happened?
He said, You should know that I am no ordinary servant—I am a pundit. I have the Gita memorized! It is my ill fate that I must sweep your floors. It is Kaliyug that I must scrub your pots. This is my fate; the Creator wrote it so. But I am an honest man. And you think me a thief!
The lady was startled: How can you say I think you a thief? I trust you completely. Look—proof of my trust: all the keys of the safe lie here in the cupboard. Even when I go out, I don’t take them with me.
The pundit said, I know they lie there. But not a single one fits the safe!

All this punditry, all this so-called integrity and religiosity is superficial. These are people draped in the blanket of God’s name while hiding their deeds. They are those who, after a hundred misdeeds, set out for pilgrimage!

Krishna Vedanta, beware of pundits! No one has misled the world more. Keep your distance from pundits—they are the real robbers, the highwaymen. What can a bandit steal—money, wealth. But pundits have stolen your souls. Those who have the Vedas, Puranas, Gita, Quran by rote—pass by them carefully; do not let even their shadow fall on you. Because of them the world has been emptied of the spirit of the Vedas, the Quran, the Gita. Because of them Upanishads are no longer born. Because of them the lamps of satsang have gone out. And if somewhere a lamp of satsang begins to glow, they rush to blow it out.

Shri Morarji Desai is engaged in every effort to see that this ashram is utterly destroyed, utterly finished, that not a single person can come here. The entire effort is to harass the sannyasins so that finally I am compelled to leave this country. I receive reliable reports—by any means, make me leave the country.

What obstacle could there be? I am not teaching people to make atom bombs; no one is being trained in guns and swords; no lessons in murder are taught here. Something else is happening here—what could they object to? People are dancing, singing, becoming ecstatic.

And that is exactly the problem. The more ecstasy there is, the more people become joyous and their inner springs begin to flow—the less the influence of pundits, priests and politicians. The more inner light there is, the more you will drop chasing outside leaders.

The pundit is angry with me: if your wisdom awakens, why would you listen to him? The leader is angry with me: if a little awareness dawns in you, will you follow these blind leaders? The blind leading the blind; both tumble into the well! Will you wave flags and shout “Victory to Morarji-bhai Desai”? If even a ray of light dawns in you, both pundit and leader are finished. That frightens them. And this fear is not new—it is ancient, eternal.

They have another fear: if I am right, what becomes of their memorized Gita? If I am right, what becomes of their statements about Mahavira and Buddha, given without understanding? What value will remain?

There is a law of economics: bad coins drive good coins out of circulation—at least they try. You know this. If you have two notes in your pocket, one genuine and one counterfeit, you will try to pass the counterfeit first. Naturally—the genuine will pass any time; pass the fake first. If there are many counterfeits in the market, everyone tries to pass them and suppress the genuine. The real ends up in safes; the fake circulates.

So it is in the world of truth. Whenever genuine coins of truth appear, the counterfeit gets into trouble—how will it circulate now? Who will accept it? What value will it have? They want to remove the genuine, suppress it. The presence of the real is deadly for them.

Therefore Morarji-bhai has the Gita memorized, gives discourses on the Ramayana—and is ready to play all the petty, mean, inhuman games of politics too! To tell the truth, their Gita and Ramayana are also part of their great political game, a piece of their conspiracy. This country suffers the illusion of being religious. Therefore its leaders must memorize religious texts. Wherever there is a certain illusion, politicians must play to it.

Have you noticed? In America, the President often gets photographed jogging, walking in the morning, bicycling, exercising—because the American notion is that the President must be robust, healthy, youthful. He must continually display his vigor. If people suspect he is weak, or getting old, or that his hands shake, his office is gone. In America, if the President falls ill, the news is not printed.

Adolf Hitler suffered from countless illnesses, but not a single report of them appeared in Germany before his death. Doctors’ mouths were sealed. He had many diseases; he was a bit deranged too. But all this was hidden. Because if Germany knew the leader was sick, the leader was finished. Germany trusts in youth, in strength.

India is the opposite. Here the older a man is, the more valuable. People exaggerate their age.

A sadhu had a great crowd around him. He was telling someone, Child, do you know my age? Seven hundred years!
A foreign tourist stood there—he couldn’t believe it. He had heard of people living to one hundred fifty in Georgia, in Russia, but seven hundred! Beside the sadhu—who looked at most seventy—sat a young man of twenty-five, who served as his pipe-filler. The tourist beckoned the young man, slipped him a five-rupee note, and asked, Brother, you are always with the saint; tell me the truth—how old is he?
The young man said, Don’t ask me. I’ve been with him only three hundred years.

In this country one must display religiosity. In America the President must be shown playing tennis, football, hockey. Here he must be shown worshipping, washing the feet of a Shankaracharya, bathing in Mother Ganga. Just the other day I saw a picture of Morarji-bhai taking a dip at Ganga Sagar!

The country thinks it is religious, so to blindfold the people, every religious formality must be observed—visit temples, go to Kashi, wherever you go, offer two flowers of reverence; the people will follow you.

All this Gita and Ramayana is outright deception!

The Gita and the Ramayana are born in the lives of those who attain samadhi. Before samadhi, all else is deception. Samadhi alone is the solution.

Brother, you’re perfectly qualified to be a husband! You’re afraid already—she’s not even a wife yet, only going to be—and already you’re so scared of her. She’s the foolish one for leaving you! A lifelong servant for free—why would she give that up!

But if you want my advice, I’ll say: if she’s leaving, let her go. Life saved and a fortune gained—the fool returns home wiser! It’s her great kindness that she has fallen in love with someone else; let someone else get trapped.

A psychologist once went to visit a madhouse. One man was already locked in a cage, banging his head. In his hand he clutched a dirty old photograph, pressing it to his chest and screaming, “Laila! Laila!” The psychologist asked the superintendent, “What happened to this man?” He said, “He was in love with this girl. So much in love that he imagined himself Majnun and her Laila. But she left him and married another young man. From that day he went mad. Since then all he does is beat his head, clasp her photo to his chest, and cry ‘Laila! Laila!’”

They went on. In the next cell another man was locked up, also banging his head and shouting, “Oh God, save me! Save me!” The psychologist asked, “And what happened to this poor fellow?” The superintendent said, “Better you didn’t ask—he’s the other young man she married.”

And now you ask me, “Please do something so that she doesn’t leave me.”

If truly you want my blessing, I’ll say: let her go—gratefully. When someone else is ready to take on the trouble, why needlessly put your neck in the noose? And if you must hang yourself, there will be other nooses—what’s the hurry? Has someone decided to die only by this rope?

You say, “My would‑be wife wants to leave me.”
She is compassionate. There is great compassion in her heart.

And you say, “The very thought pierces me like a dagger.”
This is not love; under love’s name it is something else. She does not love you; and you do not love her either—remember that. At least she is honest: she says she does not love you, she loves someone else. Whether she loves him or not, we’ll see when the time comes. But your saying you love her—that is false. Because love gives freedom. The essential mark of love is that it does not bind; it liberates. If she wants to be free, love will set her free—even if you must give a farewell with eyes full of tears, love will still say goodbye.

Love does not become a cage; love is the open sky. All right, you desired her. But if you desire her, then her happiness should be your happiness. What else does desire mean? Does desire mean exploitation? Does desire mean ownership? Does desire mean to ride on her neck?

Desire means: set her free. If she can be happier with someone else than with you, then so be it—let it be so. Cooperate. If there is love, the other’s happiness should be more valuable than your own. Say to her—

Come, let us once again become strangers, the two of us.
Let me keep no hopes of your heart’s kindness,
Nor you look at me with misconstruing glances,
Nor let my heartbeats stumble at my words,
Nor let your eyes betray the secret of your inner struggle—
Come, let us once again become strangers, the two of us.

Some entanglement holds you back from taking a step forward,
And people tell me these splendors are not mine to claim.
My companions are the scandals of my past,
And with you, too, walk the shadows of nights gone by—
Come, let us once again become strangers, the two of us.

When acquaintance turns to illness, better to forget it;
When a relationship becomes a burden, better to break it;
A tale that cannot be carried to completion—
Better to leave it at a beautiful turn and let it go;
Come, let us once again become strangers, the two of us.

If there is love, no matter how great the pain, the pain is your problem. But do not put the other into bondage because of your pain. Let her go. Set her free. She will remain grateful to you. And perhaps some day she will know that you had cared for her and loved her. Perhaps one day she will experience your love. But do not put chains on her feet. The love that fastens chains is not love.

Beside the king, this grave of the daughter of the people
Tells of how many lost tales,
Lifts the veil from how many blood‑stained truths,
Tells of how many crushed lives.

How, to soothe the pride of haughty emperors,
For years on end, markets of beauties were set up;
How, for the riotous pleasures of wandering eyes,
In crimson palaces, heaps of young bodies were piled;

How, from every branch, fragrant buds with mouths sealed
Were plucked for the adornment of the harem;
And even when they wilted, they were not set free,
For the Shadow‑of‑God’s beloved illusions’ sake;

How the slightest twitch of a single person’s lips
Could snuff out the lamps of selfless fidelities,
Rob the vermilion from shining foreheads,
Shatter the bowls brimming with the wine of love;

In these cowering airs, this desolate tomb
Is so silent, as if crying out;
In the cold branches the wind shrieks,
As if the spirit of sanctity and fidelity were reciting an elegy.

My beloved! Do not look at me with amazement and regret.
None of us is a world‑illuminator or a world‑conqueror.
You can leave me, reject me, and still go.
In your hands are my hands, not chains.

If there is love, you should have the strength to say this much—
You can leave me, reject me, and still go.
In your hands are my hands, not chains.

And if you can express love to this measure, whether a wife comes or not, a flower of love will bloom in your life. If wives alone brought blossoms, every home would be a garden. But if you can make your heart this big, this generous, then even if you do not get the wife, never mind—one flower of love will bloom in your life, and the possibility of prayer will surge within you.

This much I can pray for you, this much I can bless you: may your love be vast, generous, liberating—may your love one day become prayer. And these are the moments—the touchstones of love. These are the occasions of challenge. Whoever accepts such occasions, his worth, his honor rises greatly in the eyes of the divine. Do not weep, do not be miserable. You are to be tested on the touchstone. It is fire—you must pass through it, you must emerge refined. This too is good fortune.

And these things you are saying—that the very thought pierces you like a dagger, that you love her and can never leave as long as you live—
If you keep talking this way, you’ll shrink. And if you go on like this, even if she did not want to leave you, she will run away. Who will stay with a man who declares, “As long as I live I will never let you go! If I die—then I’ll kill!”?

No—do not become chains on anyone’s feet in life. Not on a wife’s, not a brother’s, not a sister’s, not the children’s, not the friends’.

My beloved! Do not look at me with amazement and regret.
None of us is a world‑illuminator or a world‑conqueror.
You can leave me, reject me, and still go.
In your hands are my hands, not chains.

The last question:

As far as I can see—you’re the very gentleman who asked the previous question. What more should I say? I’m no astrologer. Nobody does miracles here; no one pulls out amulets, materializes sacred ash, or produces Swiss watches. You’ve come to the wrong place.

I guess you’re the same gentleman who, out of fear, couldn’t write his name; now you’ve asked a second question: Who am I? This is no spiritual question.

A newly married couple received many gifts. Among them were two first-class tickets for a new film. Along with the tickets was a note: “Please tell me—who am I?” Husband and wife thought hard, racked their brains, but couldn’t remember who had sent the tickets.

The wife said, Well, whoever sent them, let’s not waste time. It’s almost showtime. What do we care—these tickets are hard to get anyway. Let’s go see the picture; we’ll have some fun and pass the time. And if we need to think about who sent them, we can do that later.

When they returned from the cinema, they found most of the household items—tape recorder, radiogram, television, clock, fan, and so on—gone. In the middle of the table lay another note in the same handwriting: Perhaps now you’ve recognized who I am.

I too have recognized who you are. You’re the one who, for fear of his would-be wife, didn’t write his name!

Why so much fear? What is all this dread? With such a frightened mind, can there be any growth in life? Drop fear. As I see it, where there is love there is no fear, and where there is fear there is no love. Fear and love do not go together. You are so frightened—what love can there be! Fill yourself with love so that fear dissolves. But you tried to be very clever! It isn’t easy to fool me.

A boxer hung his coat in a hotel and, afraid it might be stolen, pinned a note to it: Please do not steal the coat! — World Boxing Champion.
When he returned after eating, the coat was gone and another note was there: Please do not follow! — World Running Champion.

Your little notes won’t help. I can answer notes too.

A hippie-cut youth went to a barber’s shop and, jokingly, asked the barber, Brother, have you ever shaved a donkey?
The barber replied soberly, I haven’t, brother—but sit down, I’ll try.

That’s all for today.